


Dressing Room

by aus_der_traum



Category: Historical RPF, Third Reich - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Nazisploitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 20:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11448564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aus_der_traum/pseuds/aus_der_traum
Summary: Imagine you're an actress getting a surprise visit from the Minister of PropaGANda himself.





	Dressing Room

**Author's Note:**

> Gift!fic for [weissepup](http://weissepup.tumblr.com) who has the best tags on all of Reichblr. <3

You’re still wiping the make-up from your face when there’s a knock at the door. It opens without waiting for an answer and you’re just about to start to shout at the intruder to get the fuck out of your dressing room and pronto, when you see it’s the stage manager, Herzog. He closes the door quickly behind him, then merely stands there for a moment, ashen-faced, wringing his hands. You’ve never seen him like this.

“What is it?” you ask, much more nicely than you intended. There’s even a touch of concern in your voice.

“It’s Reichminister Goebbels,” he says and it sounds like an apology. “He wants to see you.”

You think for a moment you might have misheard what he said. There is a lump in your throat and an odd queasiness in your stomach.

“Doctor Goebbels?” you echo, nonplussed.

“What do I tell him?” he says, his eyes wide. You know he knows the stories. Everyone knows. Gossip travels far and wide; rumours spread like wildfire, that’s how it’s always been. But what could he tell him? Is it really a question? It’s also not a secret that you can’t say no to Joseph Goebbels.

“Well then, let him in,” you hear yourself say from afar, as if you’re somehow outside of your own body. You notice dimly the relief washing over Herzog’s face before he turns around to leave and you wonder if he expected you to make a scene. Because it seems you’re the only variable in this game, everything else is prearranged. 

You turn towards the mirror again to have look at your reflection, see if you’re representable – your skin is flushed from rubbing the stage make-up off and your eyes shine feverishly in the lamplight. You look lovely, you decide, even if a little dishevelled. You pick up a lipstick to add a bit of colour to your mouth to finish the look. You realise your hands are trembling when you dab the paint at your lips. You’re fumbling with the lid of the lipstick to put it back on but somehow it won’t fit.

There’s already a knock on the door. You had hoped for a little bit more time to prepare yourself for what’s to come but you can improvise, you’re an actress after all. You smile encouragingly at yourself in the mirror. You are gorgeous.

“Come in,” you call and turn around.

You jump to your feet when he enters, completely forgetting what you were doing, that you were still trying to put the lipstick back together. The metal lid slips from your clumsy fingers and lands with a clutter on the floor in front of you.

You don’t know what you expected. You’ve seen pictures of him. You’ve seen him speak once. But the reality of having him stand before you is quite different. He’s even more handsome up close, attractive in a refined, sophisticated way. He’s no party thug. He is wearing an elegant, impeccably tailored suit and a winning, if perhaps slightly nervous smile. He stretches out his arm to hand you a lovely flower bouquet as he comes closer.

You accept it without thinking, then automatically, as if in a trance, you give him your hand to kiss.

“What a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, miss,” he says before he bows down over your hand to press his mouth against its back.

You were taught once, ages ago, that a gentleman only insinuates the kiss, that his lips should never really touch your skin or at the most brush briefly against it, but after several years at the theatre you know most men aren’t gentlemen. Most men aren’t fools either and won’t miss out on the chance to kiss a beautiful girl’s hand. After all it’s only a hand for heaven’s sake.

Usually your reactions to these kisses range from mild amusement to restraining your revulsion but in this case… well, this case is different.

You are acutely aware of his hand as it touches yours, you can’t help marvelling at the long, strong, manicured fingers as they gently wrap around yours, they are extraordinarily pretty. His skin is warm and dry and you notice your palms are sweaty, but you have no time to worry about because his lips are so close to the back of your hand now that you can feel the dampness of his breath, and then as they make contact the wetness of his mouth.

You think you might faint.

Now, what Herzog doesn’t know, what no one knows really, is that you fantasied about this moment. That you imagined Doctor Goebbels coming to your dressing room after a performance to express his admiration for you, but now that it’s happening you can’t believe you’re not dreaming.

You don’t know how long he had his lips pressed against your skin, it seems simultaneously too briefly and like half an eternity.

“Allow me,” he says, kneeling down in front of you to pick up the lipstick lid. You had already forgotten about it but now you praise god for your clumsiness. He looks lovely gazing up at you, with his large brown eyes. You notice how pretty his eyelashes are and when he gets up, his hand brushes, as if accidental, lightly against your leg. It’s only a casual touch and you’re wearing stockings, so it’s not even skin on skin, but it’s still shockingly intense. Something pulls tight in your lower belly.

You thank him for picking up the lid, take it from his open palm and take a step backwards to put it (and the flowers) down on your dressing table.

He watches you retreat; his eyes are keen, alert. You can feel them on your skin, they make it tingle. He says something flattering about your stage presence but your own heart beat is so loud in your ears it’s difficult to make out the words. He smiles at you while he talks and all you can think about is how it would feel to have that expressive mouth nip at your bottom lip, how he would taste on your tongue.

Absent-mindedly you kick off your heels and you see in the curl of his lips that he understands the invitation. He takes a step towards you and you stop breathing. You just forget it as time comes to a halt for a moment. You stand there, your lips slightly parted, and wait for him to put his hands on your hips. They are still gentle but they’re also firm, possessive: there is no question in his hold on you, he’s not asking for your permission, he’s telling you that he wants you.

“Breathe,” he says with a slight note of amusement in his tone and you do as you’re told.

The air burns in your lungs as you suck it down and you realise the lack of oxygen has already made you dizzy and light-headed.

He is watching you while you try to concentrate on breathing.

“That’s better,” he says when you have calmed down. You’re still having trouble to fully comprehend what is happening. He’s so close, you can sense his body heat and you want have him even closer, press yourself against him, feel all the hard angles of his body. He takes his right hand away from your hip and reaches out to touch your face, cup your cheek in his palm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says and you want to protest because that’s what good girls do when they’re getting a compliment, they cast down their eyes and blush and say,  _no I’m not_ , but you aren’t a good girl, are you? So you’re wetting your lips and hold his gaze.

“Do you think so?”

Now it’s him who seems sheepish for a second, his eyes flick away, flick back to you. Then he smiles, a boyish, almost innocent smile. “I do,” he says.

He runs his thumb over you bottom lip, rubs it over the spot where your tongue was a moment ago, where the skin must be still wet. “I want to kiss you.” It’s only a thought uttered aloud while he focuses on your mouth, a murmur to himself, but oh, what it does to you to hear it! There is such a delicious roughness to his voice, you can hear how much he wants you.

You summon all your courage to reach out, you’re undecided where to put your hand, where he would allow you to touch him, so you let your fingers glide over his silk tie when you say, as flirty as you dare: “Why don’t you kiss me then?”

He takes that little step towards you that will close the last distance between your bodies; you end up bumping into the dressing table and Goebbels pressed flush against you, his hand cradling your skull as he is leaning in.

“So you’re a little coquette, aren’t you?” he whispers against your mouth, and you can’t deny it. You’re not exactly promiscuous but you’re not averse to some fun either, and who on earth could resist Doctor Goebbels anyway, if he came knocking on their door. Who wouldn’t be seduced by his charm and power and position? Not you, for sure. You’re aching with want for him, you already started to squirm against him, a dull throbbing between your legs. His fingers tug at your hair, not viciously but insistently enough for to tilt back your head a little. You open your lips in surprise and that’s when he kisses you.

You want him to be passionate, to lose himself in this kiss but he takes it slow, perhaps to show you how much in control he is. He just nips at your mouth, at your upper lip first, then at your bottom lip, he nibbles at it, sucks it into his mouth until you whimper with frustration. You’re so hungry for his tongue.

“How impatient you are, little kitten,” he says between small teasing kisses. You have no idea how serious he is in his exasperation about your behaviour but you suspect the chiding is only part of the game. You can hear in his tone how pleased he is with your eagerness. And you want him to be pleased, you want him to want you.

You throw your arms around his neck, you grind yourself against him. No matter how much he pretends to be calm and unaffected and completely on top of things, the effect you’re having on him is undeniable, you can feel the shape of his cock, firm and stiff, beneath the fabric of his trousers. He’s hard for you and he has not even had his tongue inside your mouth.

“I want you,” you breathe, it’s more of a moan than a proper sentence but you have no shame. It’s too late for playing hard to get and you’re only telling the truth.

You take his left hand (the hand that’s not buried in your hair) and guide it to your breast. He gives an appreciative little sigh at the feeling of softness, he rubs his hand against you until your nipple tightens, a taut little bud against his palm. He takes it between his fingers and pinches, only a tiny bit, gently, but you can feel the sensation like a hot wave washing through you.

He finally kisses you properly then, his tongue sliding against yours and it’s so good you want him to eat you up, to slip inside you and devour you inside out. You’re lucky he swallows all the needy noises you make, so no one will never know how desperate you are for him. You’re clutching at his shoulders, at his neck. Your hands glide deeper, over his chest, to the waistband of his trousers; your fingers are trembling again when you start to fumble with the button.

Goebbels lets go of you, grasping your wrists. He’s pausing for a moment to look at you. Probably he didn’t expect you to be so easy as to do this without at least having dinner first, without even having had as much as a drink together. You should feel bad about it but you don’t. All you think about it is the growing tension between your legs, how increasingly wet you are and how empty you feel. He must have caught on to that because he gathers up your dress and pushes you against the dressing table and steps between your legs, trapping you.

His hands are on your thighs, they glide over the stockings towards naked skin. You remember how pretty they are. Your cunt is throbbing with a desire for these long and gorgeous fingers, you yearn for him to push them inside you and he knows it. You can see it in the way he’s looking at you. Involuntarily you spread your legs wider.

“Please,” you whisper when he trails his fingers over the seams of your underwear.

He doesn’t glance up. “Please what?”

You swallow hard. Does he really expect you to explain? You already told him that you want him, didn’t you? What else could you possibly say? You inhale sharply when he pulls your panties aside and runs his fingers over the damp, velvety skin of your labia, just shy of your wetness. You want them to dip inside you, one, two, three. You want him to stretch you open and rub his thumb over your clit and then…

“I want you inside me,” you say, your voice sounds pleading and weak and his smile is so radiant and so affectionate it makes you melt a little bit further.

One of his fingers slips between your folds, he strokes you softly, teasingly. You’re trembling with anticipation. Any moment now he will push that finger inside you. You’re breathing grows shallow, you want this so much. You make a wet, choking sound when he finally slides not one but two fingers into your cunt, you’re clenching around them. You are so greedy.

You bury your face in his shoulder as he starts fucking you with his fingers, you stifle your moans with the fine fabric while you focus how good this already feels. But you know it can be even better. Eventually your moans become words again,  _yes_  and  _please_  and  _fuck me_.

At some point he withdraws his fingers, you have no idea how long this has been going on, you’re too drunk on your own arousal. You hear the rustle of fabric as he is unfastening his trousers. You catch a glimpse at his cock when he has you wiggle out of your underwear, rosy and swollen with blood and without thinking you reach for it. It’s hot and silky and Goebbels’ hips jerk in reflex when you wrap your hand around it. He allows you to give it a couple of strokes, then he gently pries your fingers away. You marvel at the pink head, a first drop of liquid is seeping from it and you’re licking your lips.

He kisses you while he rubs his cock against your pussy, smearing your own wetness over your clit. His breathing comes faster now too, and you wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer. Then, at last, he is sinking into you, slowly, carefully, inch by inch. It feels incredible. He’s filling you so perfectly, you’re mind goes blank, you’re only nerves and sensations and pleasure. Once he’s completely inside you, he has to pause for a moment, he’s panting against your mouth, hot and wet, and you use the chance to flick your tongue over his lips.

He laughs, breathless and calls you a cheeky little thing. And then he starts to move and you forget all about cheekiness. He fucks you with deep, forceful thrusts, slow at first but he’s gaining speed fast. The rickety dressing table collides with the wall with every push; the whole theatre will know about this, you think, but you couldn’t care less. Your inner muscles flex around him with every move, squeezing and clenching around him as if to keep him in place.

He kisses you, sloppy, passionate, and you kiss him back. His hand sneaks between your bodies and he starts swiping his thumb over your clit, over and over and over again, until you’re strung to breaking point.

“Oh god, you feel so good,” you tell him, and: “don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

You cry out his name when you come and he follows you a couple of thrusts later.

You stay wrapped around each other for a while afterwards, trying to catch your breath. He is stroking your sweat-damp hair while you press your lips against his neck, breathing in his scent. From time to time his cock still gives a little excited twitch inside you. You realise you don’t want to let go and you’re inclined to tell him.

_

**Author's Note:**

> For more nazi fic curated by the Baldur von Schirach Society for Poetic Souls (BvSSfPS) go to [aus-der-traum.tumblr.com](https://aus-der-traum.tumblr.com)


End file.
